The memory lasts

midsummer days evoke entrancing pasts,
where children played in joyous, daisied fields,
with buttercups so bright the memory lasts
a freedom that our conscious growth will steal.

those stones and leaves and many coloured flowers
were gathered into images that glow
yet later we forget those treasured hours
when for a while we lived in life’s deep flow

we did not look from faraway, but felt at one
we lived as did the birds high in the trees
now we see and write,experiencing has gone;
we no longer live like flowers  nor swirl with bees

to lose ourselves in nature is a joy
which to our adult selves we must restore

I welcome comments and criticism

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